Follow the Leader
by mrssquirrel880
Summary: Sherlock as always been a handful but lately its almost more than John can carry. Sherlock's only getting worse and how can John possibly force a (maybe not so) highly functioning sociopath to eat, sleep and cooperate? This story shows the struggle of the two men in 221B Baker Street.
1. Chapter 1

I'm pacing around in our living room while Mycroft barks at me; he doesn't even try to hide his annoyance towards me anymore. He makes it clear how he feels about me. And Sherlock. And our relationship.

It's always about Sherlock. What else would it be about? He's only gotten worse since proving Moriarty was dead. A few meters away, I can feel his presence, he lies sprawled out on his disordered bed, unconscious with a limp arm dangling from the left side of the bed. I didn't even need to examine him, the needle marks can be seen from a mile away. I'm sure if he was in control of himself he wouldn't have let them be seen in such plain view but nonetheless, it irritates me. How could he be so careless? Oh I know, he doesn't care about anything. Not me, not –

"He cares about you John." Mycroft says spitefully, contradicting my thoughts.

I scoff, he has a funny way of showing it.

"He does. You need to use that to your own advantage. It's the only way to break him out of this self self fulfilling prophecy of doom before he gets too deep he can't get out."

I swallow, "What do you mean, 'self fulfilling prophecy of doom'?"

"Death."

I stare at him angrily. It's probably true what he's saying but I've been avoiding that possibility for years. He can't die. Not like this. Not of his own accord. Not on my watch.

"Get out!" I yell as politely as I can while stopping the urge for me to force him out.

"His days are limited, Watson."

How can he say that? If he truly believes that then why is he itching towards the door? He doesn't even look slightly upset. Sherlock's his brother for god's sake.

I start making my way over to him, thinking that maybe I can beat some sense into him, when he slams the living room door in my face and makes his way downstairs. I stay behind the closed door. Sherlock will be able to know there was a fight. It won't make him any better. However, I'm too angry to let it go. I'm mad at myself for letting him get to this stage, I'm mad at Sherlock for letting himself get there and for Mycroft walking away. I try to stop myself but I can't. I see a picture of the three of us. I smash the perfect frame.

* * *

After bandaging my right fist, I grab my equipment and go into Sherlock's room. He hates me here but I don't care. Not anymore. I ignore the needle marks and measure with my tape measure around his wrist and record the size. 14cm. Last time I did this it was 14.8cm. He's losing more weight. I've been sneaking in some more vitamins and proteins in to his diminishing diet but it isn't working. If I could weigh him, I'd be able to tell the size of the problem. Of course, he'd never allow that. I measure his waist, 31, lower than before too. I carry on measure whatever I can and jotting down my results next to the previous weeks. Sherlock's not the only on that conducts his own secret experiments. I'm also pretty sure he has anemia. He gets short of breath more easily and he looks paler than usual. He's not well.

After measuring his heart rate and noticing a few beats being missed, I realise how bad it has got. Maybe his numbers of days are limited. He should go to hospital but he'd run out. I've took him before and it didn't help. They might take him away, for a long time. I would doubt he'd cooperate. Maybe I'm not helping him. I do try. I need to try harder. Use his care for me to my advantage.


	2. Chapter 2

"John?" Sherlock calls me from his room.

I moved out of there just under an hour ago as I didn't want him to know I'd been there. Although he may already know, I try not to make these situations too obvious.

"Yes." I say evenly.

He steps out into the landing and towards me in the kitchen. He looks out the window and then at the closed living room.

"Why was Mycroft here?"

I stay quiet for a second. He has his fancy silk pyjamas on with a cotton robe that wears him. The sleeves are longer than his arms, no doubt to hide his needle marks. Perhaps he doesn't know that I have already saw them.

"I do wish he'd stay out of our business. He shouted at you."

"Yes, he did. I'm a big man, Sherlock. Mycroft doesn't scare me."

Sherlock looks very irritated. He closes his eyes momentarily.

"We didn't talk about you, Sherlock." I say ignoring the lengthy discussions of rehabilitation and drug use I had with his brother.

He flees towards the door and through it. Mycroft told me I shouldn't let him leave, treat him like an infant. However, I have a feeling he's not leaving. This theory rings true when I hear him knocking on Mrs. Hudson's door.

I get closer to her door so I can hear properly.

"What did Mycroft say earlier?" He says forcefully.

My eyebrows raise, he's always so nice to Mrs. Hudson (well, as nice as he can be).

"What—Dear, I haven't the faintest. I was asleep, you know I don't wake up that early, with my hip you've got to rest. That's what the doctor had been telling me. Rest. Though he did mention something about ar—"

"I don't care about your hip, Mrs. Hudson! He—Mycroft he was shouting. He was being very loud. He must've woke you up."

I shake my head angrily and rush towards them. I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't hurt her but I was also sure that he'd never shout t her so who knows anything anymore? It an new era of Sherlock.

"I don't know anything, Sherlock. I didn't wake up, well, I woke up previously in the night, to check if the gas was still on. I didn't hear anyone—No. There wasn't any n-noise."

He's making her get all confused. What is he playing at?

" **What did he say**?" He yells.

Mrs Hudson steps back behind the door and covers her face.

I charge at Sherlock and grab a fistful of his gown in left hand and a firm grip on his shoulder. I drag with away from her.

"John! This is important. I was only asking her what he said. You keep lying to me, John. John! Get off me!"

Mrs. Hudson slams her door and I push his back into our apartment and slam ours.

Sherlock steps away to the other side of the room.

"John, you don't—"

I step forward and cross my arms. I'm so angry at him. She basically raised him. The lack of respect disgusts me. What was this even over? His brother visiting us about the problems he caused.

"Never speak to her like that again." I spit furiously.

"What? No I wasn't—"

" **IF** you ever yell at her again. It'll be the last thing you will ever do." I realise that I'm shouting now.

Sherlock's head lowers and he looks hurt, "I just needed to know."

"What he said." I finish of his sentence.

He nods.

"Maybe you'd know if you weren't passed out." I say spitefully.

He shoots me a warning look which I dismiss. We don't often talk about his personal issues. I think that's going to change. I can't hold it in.

"If you didn't get high. If you didn't give him a reason to come round."

Sherlock's ears perked up at the end of my sentence. I think he's trying to get information out of me. I swear to god if he's doing an interrogation technique on me, I'll snap. Though he doesn't look embarrassed. He checks are red, he's fidgeting his sleeves and he's sweating though I'm not sure that has anything to do with this.

"So, he came round because of me? My habits?" I was right he is trying to deduce something out of me.

I bet he doesn't even feel sorry. I just—I can't live like this.

"John, what happened to your hand?" He says with more intrigue than I'd like.

I sigh, disappointed.

"Get out."

Sherlock looks confused, "Wha—Where?"

"Your room."

He does what I said.

How can I tell him I almost beat his brother in an attempt to shut the thought of his own probable death out of my head because I can't deal with the thought of him dying? Or the fact that I know it' my fault and that the world is crumbling down below me and smashing that picture was the only way to keep myself above the alluring cracks. I can't.


	3. Chapter 3

"Lunch." I say loudly outside his door.

It been a couple hours since Sherlock's interrogation with Mrs. Hudson, I'm still not happy about it but it past lunch time now and he can't afford to miss meals.

I've made him some boring ham sandwiches. For some reason, I'm not feeling very giving at the moment and besides I've notice that the plainer the foods are more appealing it Sherlock. He usually eats more of it anyway. He walks into the room in his usual long strides but he's less confident. He doesn't know how this will play out, neither do I. He doesn't like the unknown, not when it comes to me.

He's dressed in his casual clothes and his hair looks more controlled.

I place the plate on the table he's standing next to.

"Eat." A single word falls out of my mouth.

He sits at the table.

Though I am pressuring him to eat, I don't want to watch him doing it. It'd show I'm focusing too much on it and Sherlock may refuse to eat entirely. So, I slowly make my own and sit in my chair.

I hear him sigh quietly. I don't know exactly how he feels about food. He's said before that it slows down his thought process, I can't see how that would make a difference to it at all. Maybe it does.

I can't see his plate from this angle so I'm not sure how much he's ate. I'm finished so I wash up my plate. I turn to him and he's only had a bite or two. Now I sigh.

Though he looks lost in thought he hears he clearly and his face turns to stone.

"Why'd you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Change your face like that, like you've turned your emotions off."

"Maybe I have."

I don't really believe that he can turn them off, I just think he changes his face, his posture, his whatever to deal with certain situations and hides them on the outside. I wonder how long it's taken him to be able to master that. And how is he not better at reading situations by doing that? Well maybe he knows what they are feeling but is incapable of reciprocating them.

"But why?"

"You're going to yell, are you not?"

"I haven't decided. Why did you think I was?"

"I didn't eat." Sherlock says plainly.

"So eat."

"John." He huffs.

"Sherlock." I huff back.

"Look if this is about earlier…"

"It's not."

I can see he's going to leave the table soon but he's a grown man and I can't exactly force him to stay.

"If you tell me why you don't want to eat it, you don't have to eat all of it."

"I've told you before john. I don't need to eat as much as you do. My body is accustomed to this sort of diet."

"Accustomed to starving yourself."

"Starving myself." He scoffs and shakes his head. "It works better like this. I can't think straight if I'm stuffing food constantly. It's not a big deal John. It's always been like this, John. You know what I'm like."

"The rest of us can eat _and_ think."

Sherlock suddenly perks up, "I'll eat."

I look at him sceptically. What's he planning?

"I will but don't just stand there gawping at me. Go. Make yourself useful."

* * *

Sherlock plonks down in front of me on his chair. It's almost midnight. We share a glace and I put the newspaper down.

"I apologized to Miss Hudson."

I nod, appreciatively. Sherlock fidgets in his seat.

"I'm sorry I was so paranoid." He exasperates. "How's your hand?"

I look down at the bandage, I forgot I had hurt it for a moment and when I remember about it, it does start to throb.

"Worse than it looks."

He nods slightly. He's concentrating, hard, on something though I'm not sure what. There's must me something bugging him.

"Sherlock, what are you thinking about?" I say suspiciously.

"I'm actually trying not to think. To refrain myself."

It must be something he wants to ask me, probably about the Mycroft's appearance. I guess he doesn't want to bring up something that caused so much, perhaps unnecessary tragedy. He thinking about my feelings, wow. He must feel guilty.

"Why?" He asks attentively. "What are you thinking about?"

"About what you're thinking about."

Sherlock starts to laugh and I follow with a chuckle. Even after our smiles fade down, the mood remains lightened. I'm not angry anymore.

"Go on then." I prompt. He looks up confused, an eyebrow raised. "You do have a question to ask me, right?"


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock starts to laugh and I follow with a chuckle. Even after our smiles fade down, the mood remains lightened. I'm not angry anymore.

"Go on then." I prompt. He looks up confused, an eyebrow raised. "You do have a question to ask me, right?"

* * *

"Did Mycroft spook you, say some contradictory dribble about how I'm going to die if I carry on my rebellious, insubordinate and stubborn lifestyle? No, that probably too outright for an lesser consociate but he probably wanted some kind of impact from his visit, he's not a man to waste more time on transferring his message across due to miscommunication on his part. No, he implied it, said something along the lines of 'the clocks ticking, John.' 'It's the end of days' or maybe the more dramatic, 'his life depends on you, John. It's up to you, and you only to save it."

"His days are numbered."

Sherlock smirks, "anything else?"

"He talked about you having a 'self-fulfilling prophecy of doom'."

"He said that?" Sherlock says with some sudden interest.

I nod.

"'Self-fulfilling prophecy of doom'" He echoes.

"Yes!" I say getting aggravated about this insignificant part of the story.

Sherlock leans forward, repeating the motion of shaking his head.

"Is there no such thing as loyalty? Paraphrasing my own words to implicate my partner's sentiment, for what? By now Sherlock has started pacing around the room.

"Sherlock, I don't see why you're getting so worked up,"

"Don't see why? Don't see why!" He frowns while messaging his temples and maintaining a quick pace.

"He did it on purpose, John. This whole thing. Using you to send a message. Using me to decipher it. He knew I wouldn't be able to resist my temptation—my need to know what, in god's name, his reason was to come here and-and interfere."

I need him to talk to me. I don't understand it but he's in no position to explain anything to me. He already thinks I'm an idiot. With every step I can see him get angrier and he's going to explode. He stares out the door with longing for several seconds as if there was a paradise on the other side of it. He slams his fist into his head several times. He looks straight at me.

"Did what on purpose? Sherlock tell me what he planned." I insist.

He smashes his lab equipment onto the floor is one impulsive action, and the objects disfigure and break.

"Sherlo—sherlock. Just sit down. Sit. Okay?" I say wearily coercing him it the seat.

He steps away and then back a few to his chair where he greets it with a thump. I sit down. He wipes his hands on his face, composes himself.

"You know how, when I woke up, I knew he'd been here. I called you to ask why he had been here. Remember?"

"How'd you know?" I play along.

"As you know I was unconscious, he must have knew, or guessed that I'd be too. In fact I had been wondering why it had been so easy to purchase drugs recently." He has a short exasperated laugh, "Of course."

"He wanted you to be knock yourself out?" I huff.

"If I wasn't, I'd have heard the argument and I would've fled."

"Flee from what?"

Sherlock dismisses my demanding question with a wave of his hand.

"Back to the point. He made it obvious that he was here. Left markings, an odour, a presence. That's why I got so worked up. I knew it was important, the moment I saw them..."

"I don't understand."

"This was his plan. Say something that'd get you mad and because you care about me you'll confront me about it or intentionally leave the signs of what you are feeling so I'd deduce it. Your hand for example. But it's not just that it's the phrasing of his, my words, purposely to show me what happens next."

"He played us." I mutter, more angry at myself for falling for it.

"Indeed, he did." Sherlock agrees.

"He wanted me to tell you what he said and wanted you to explain whatever he means by it."

"It's not just that, John."

"Then what?"

"He wants your consent John."

 **A/N: I know this might confusing but it'll all be explained in the next chapter. Until then, leave a review?**


	5. Chapter 5

"Consent? Consent for what?"

Sherlock huffs, like I should already know.

"Mycroft doesn't often talk about my demise, only for leverage mostly. Must be some kind of pressure point for him, though I don't understand why."

I roll my eyes, seriously he can't be that ignorant about Mycroft feelings toward him.

"So when I heard about what he said, he knew I'd overreact especially when he is involving you in his scheme. But this is different."

"Why because he said some theatrical words about a prophecy of doom?" I say sarcastically.

Sherlock clench his jaw angrily, "John. It's not about those words, it's what it represents." My eyebrows raise and he forces words out of his tightened mouth. "A memory."

"He planted this because he wanted you to tell me about a memory… For my consent…" I say slowly trying to piece it together. Although I have no idea of Mycroft's endgame.

"Yes." Sherlock sighs.

"Are you going to tell me?" I say hesitantly.

"I suppose I should." Sherlock rings his hands.

He's uncomfortable. What is it about his past that's so hard to tell? I could guess, but I don't want to go down that road. Who knows what made him who he is today? He's terrified. He been quiet for a while now.

"Tell me, Sherlock." I plead.

Sherlock's voice breaks slightly, as he mutters, "I can't."

My heart breaks and my eyes soften with pity. I've never seen him like this before. I hate Mycroft for putting him in this position. He obviously didn't want to tell me and now Mycroft's forced his hand. It's not right, to do this, to Sherlock. Tears swim in his eyes but he refuses to let them drop.

"You don't have to tell me." I offer.

Sherlock shakes his head and looks at me intently.

"I do." His voice is strained so he clears his throat until, I imagine, the lump in his throat is gone. "The 'theatrical phrase' you're so fond off is something I said after I had… had my first overdose. Mycroft tried to look after me, just like what you do. Except we didn't get along as well. He took me to a hospital, against my will of course. He told my mother and my father, they grieved right before me as if I had already written my own tombstone. Like I was dead. He told Lestrade that I was psychotic, he took me of cases."

"Sherlock… I don't…" My voice trails off.

"He tried to stop me from living in 221B, John. Though Miss Hudson would never allow that." He struggles through his words and finds a small smile in himself when mentioning Mrs Hudson, she's always stuck up for him.

"I got angry, livid even. I had nothing left to live for. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping, and stopped talking."

"That sounds familiar." I joke.

Sherlock looks at my sadly and I regret saying it.

"What happened next?" I say changing the subject.

"I was in hospital for a while longer because of this and I was in a lot of pain. I knew my body was shutting down, the only relief I got was from my pain killers. Mycroft stopped me receiving them."

"You can't do that. You needed them. A trained doctor would never allow that to happen."

"I want you to understand that he did it as a bargaining chip to make me start speaking him to be again, to speak to anyone. He did want me to get better. I forced myself not too, I hated him. I caused more havoc, breaking machinery, refusing help and anything else I could think of to get back at him. I thought that maybe he'd get the idea that I didn't want him there. When he left maybe then I could actually get some pain relief."

"Did it work?"

"No. He only stayed longer. It must had been around the, I don't know, 12th day of being there I had serious withdrawal symptoms. I've learned to last a long time without feeling the effects but I couldn't ignore them anymore. It must have been the worst I've ever felt, I couldn't stop throwing up or shaking. Shaking so much it looked like I was fitting. Mycroft did nothing, only said what he always said, that he could help me get better if I showed him I wanted to – by eating something, by telling him how I was feeling or asking him to help me."

He studies my reaction before he continues and I wonder what information he gets from it I don't know how I'm feeling. Sherlock could've died. He was stubborn. Mycroft wanted him to get better. He was ruthless.

Sherlock continues, "He told me I was going to die. And I probably was. He shouted at me a lot. He lost his temper. He broke the chair." He eyes my hand.

"It's not the same."

Sherlock shakes his head.

"But you didn't die. You fought through it." I remind him but he disagrees.

"That night I waited for him to fall asleep. He rarely did but after that scene I knew he's be tired. I managed to get to the drugs cabinet. I should've just taken the medication I needed. Instead I took a lot of… well everything. I wrote him a list of everything I'd taken and I made my way back to bed and waited for the effects to start. After, of course, I placed the list in his hand."

"How many did you take?" I say angrily.

"I was suicidal, John."

He must've tried to kill himself. How could Mycroft not see that coming? He must've been depressed, at the very least. He needed help. Not Mycroft's coldness towards him.

"So it was a suicide attempt?

"It wasn't meant to be an attempt. I planned it out, I was certain it'd work."

"Then why the list?"

"I wanted to hurt him. It was wrong. I know that know. But at the time I wasn't thinking straight. Plus he was always so insistent of these notes, I wanted to give him one last one."

"Then how come you didn't die?" I say more detached then I thought I'd be.

Sherlock is rarely wrong about these things, if he planned it out it should have worked.

"I'm not exactly sure. Maybe it was a miracle, but probably something Mycroft did. I woke up in a different room in a different building. I knew my stomach had been pumped but what else they did I don't know. I was in a psychiatric hospital. After a couple weeks, I realised I was never going to get out of there if I didn't improve. So I did. I hated it, John. They… they mess with your mind. If I didn't have my mind palace, I think I would have gone insane."

A psychiatric hospital? That's pretty rough. I'm not a fan of that sort of treatment, I don't think it's right, humane even. Though, it did help him. I know they don't do the things they used to but they still interfere with how your mind works. I'm supposed to decide if he goes?

"You think because Mycroft copied your words, you're going back?"

"I'm certain of it"

I nod slightly.

"Do you think you should go?"

"My opinions biased on the fact that I hate it. Would it help? I don't know. This time I'd respond better to the treatment. I wouldn't cheat my way out of it."

I shake my head continuously, "How am I supposed to decide for you? It should be your decision. Mycroft should let you decide."

"I'd say no even if I needed it but I'm allowing you to decide. Not him. If you think I should go, I will."

"Why now?" I ask suspiciously.

"I wrote him another list."

That's all Sherlock needed to say for me to understand. It was another suicide attempt. I can't help it but I start shaking with anger.

"Yesterday?" I say furiously.

He nods.

 **Let me know what you think about this chapter.**


	6. Chapter 6

"Why now?" I ask suspiciously.

"I wrote him another list."

That's all Sherlock needed to say for me to understand. It was another suicide attempt. I can't help it but I start shaking with anger.

"Yesterday?" I say furiously.

He nods.

"I give him my consent."

Sherlock nods, he understands why I did it. He probably guessed I'd allow him to go. Then why do I feel so guilty? I feel rotten. There's a gnawing pit at the bottom of my stomach which makes me feel sick and uneasy. I have to remind myself that it's what he needs but I can't help feeling that I've betrayed him. But he betrayed me too. He was going to leave me alone in this world. Without him. My heart pounds, I can't imagine him not being here. I don't want too.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I really am." I say shakily.

"Don't. Please." Sherlock is rigid, he's trying to stay strong and I'm not helping him.

I'm more upset then he is. In fact I'm more than upset, I'm overwhelmed. Sherlock tried to kill himself yesterday. I didn't see it. There must have been warning signs. In fact there was, dozens of them. His lack of appetite and weight loss for one. I did know he wasn't handling it well but it never occurred to me why he had done all of this. He has given up. Lost the will to live. Sherlock hasn't moved for a minute or two now and he must catch me staring at him because he starts to talk.

"I'm trying to not break down. If I do, it'll be harder for me in there. If I break, that's it. So, I'd don't want to hear any of that." Sherlock looks wearily at my eyes and adds, for good measure, "And no crying. Okay?"

I wipe my eyes, it may be too late for that, I think, when I discover my sleeve of my jumper to be wet.

"Okay, Sherlock. Whatever you want."

Sherlock nods and suddenly has a thought.

"John. Don't tell Mycroft yet."

"Sherlock…" I trail off.

I don't want to keep putting this off, I may not be able to let him go otherwise. And god forbid he runs away. I hate to say it but it is a possibility. It's be easy to do, I don't think I'd stop him from leaving.

"Sunrise?" Sherlock pleads.

"Sunrise." I repeat in agreement.

Sherlock exhales peacefully and relaxes into the seat.

"I wish you'd opened up to me, Sherlock."

He raises his eyebrow, "Why?"

"I want to help. To share a load, you know?"

Sherlock shakes his head and I'm not sure he quite understands.

"Ask whatever you want to ask but first let me get comfortable."

* * *

Sherlock POV.

Instead of going off to my bedroom to put on my dressing gown which is what I planned to do when I left my chair, my eyes catch on my coat and I feel myself move slightly towards the coatrack. It's longing for me as much as am I longing for it. One more adventure. To provide warmth for my rigid body. Somewhere, in the dead of London night, with John my side. To reassure me with the memories of other successful nights and remind me that I am, unfortunately, only human as I too need protection from the cold. I then steer away from it, moving in the direction I planned to go.

"You alright? You can put on the coat if you want. I know you like wearing it." John says kindly, trusting me to not run away in it.

He shouldn't. It wouldn't be one more adventure. It would be my endless escape and would definitely would not be by my side. The coat wouldn't comfort me, not in the way I want, needed it too. No. It'd be an insistent reminders of those other nights and it'd smother me constantly, the sleeves tread tightening making the fabric stick to my arms and the torso tightening until I couldn't breathe and perhaps I wouldn't want to. No, I'll put on the dressing gown.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sherlock's POV**

I've let John see too much. I pick up my dressing gown from the floor of my bedroom with shaky hands. _Shaky hands? I don't get shaky hands. Not when I'm not in withdrawal._ I look down at my hand incredulously. _How can this be happening?_ I squeeze my eyes shut and run a self diagnosis by opening my mind palace. I enter my emotion memory room. I say my symptoms: shortness of breath, sweating, shaky hands ( I add, much to my annoyance), oh and irritability. Molly appears behind me with a clipboard.

"Anxiety."

"From what?"

Molly sighs. "Sherlock, you're about to open up to John. He now knows about your suicidal thoughts. You don't know what that means for you two. You're worried about him leaving you. You think he'll leave."

"No, it can't be that."

Mycroft appears. "Sentiment." He tuts.

"He has the right to be anxious. He's going to... that place again." Molly argues.

"Exactly."

Molly disappears.

"Sherlock, you must control yourself. It is in dire importance that you do. One second to break..."

"A thousand to pick it back up." I continue.

"Forever to repair."Mycroft finishes.

I nod at him and remove myself from my mind. I know what I have to do. I force my hand to stop shaking. I control my breathing. I control myself. I build walls around my emotions. I will not let them show. I will save them for later. _Do what you've always done._ I change my face, check it in the mirror. Relaxed, faintly bored. No, I've just been through a traumatic event. I narrow my brows slightly. Fold my arms, without too much uptightness, to show I am sulking like I need reassurance. Perfect. John may go easy on me. Lord, I hope he does.

I put my dressing gown. I walk back into the room slowly and sit in my chair. I look at John and wait for him to make the first move. I've promised I'd answer his questions and I will, truthfully (for the most part, the important things). I cannot show him weakness. I set my jaw, preparing to deal with whatever John throws at me. _Let the show begin._

"Say something. I asked you to ask me whatever you wanted too." Sherlock prompts me.

* * *

 **John's POV**

I have been quiet for a while, trying to gather my thoughts. It's a lot to process. Sherlock is suicidal. He tried to die, meters away from me. He would have let me discover his body, his dead body. I can't believe he'd do such a thing. It's selfish. He want escape the pain of the world by ending it. But the world doesn't end for us, for the people that care about him, it just darkens. Blackens until it snuffs all the light out. He's staring at me, expectantly. He looks relaxed which bugs me a lot.

"How can you be bored?" I say furiously.

He lifts his head up, confused.

"You haven't spoke."

I notice his calm posture for the a thousandth time. So casual and... out of place. I just don't understand it. He must be faking it. No way can he be bored. He must feel guilty for trying to kill himself. Or cheated. Or annoyed. He must at least be angry at me for making him go to a psychiatric hospital. He must feel something. He must. Why pretend? I know he doesn't want to have a breakdown but the will if he keeps on suppressing his emotions. He must let some of it out. I wish he'd trust me enough to do that.

"You want me to speak?"

He nods.

"Fine. I will speak. I'm not afraid to let out my emotions." I dig.

"Please! Carry on. I'd love to hear all about your emotions." He pleads sarcastically.

What is wrong with him? Earlier he was almost crying. Now he's being cold hearted? He knows how upset I am. How much I hate him right now. Now he's trying to belittle me? I thought we were getting somewhere. If a near death experience can't get him to talk about his feelings then what will? If I can break this façade, I'll be able to help him. He obviously can't cope on his own. If he could, we shouldn't be here. What did Mycroft say? To use his care for me as an advantage?

 **It's all heating up. Leave a review, telling me what you think about the story so far.**


	8. Chapter 8

"Please! Carry on. I'd love to hear all about your emotions." He pleads sarcastically.

What is wrong with him? Earlier he was almost crying. Now he's being cold hearted? He knows how upset I am. How much I hate him right now. Now he's trying to belittle me? I thought we were getting somewhere. If a near death experience can't get him to talk about his feelings then what will? If I can break this façade, I'll be able to help him. He obviously can't cope on his own. If he could, we shouldn't be here. What did Mycroft say? To use his care for me as an advantage?

 **John's POV**

Alright. Feelings. I can do this. Sherlock doesn't seem to want to listen anyway though I know he is. If I don't do this, then he won't open up and they'll always be a block of confusion between us. It'll make everything harder, his recovery harder. It's not just that, I care about that irritating twitch. If something make him want to kill himself, then I should know what that thing is. As it is probably some mental problem, the only way I'll know is if he tells me.

"Got nothing to say?" He asks arrogantly with a smile, leaving his chair.

"Sit down, Sherlock! I haven't even started!"

He spins round and sits down without the smirk.

"So let's get started!" He says with obvious fake excitement as he places his hands on his raised knee in interest.

I huff, why does he think everything's a game? It's not. It's really not. I open my mouth, not sure what to start with first but the words come out anyway.

"I'm going to explain this clearly, as you clearly don't understand," I say motioning to his calm stature. "You barely eat. You don't sleep. You don't talk to me. Mycroft blames me for being your enabler and he's right. I can't help you, not if you don't let me. So I sit there. Helpless. Watching you destroy yourself. I want to leave."

Sherlock looks up at me quickly with his deducing face and then back to the window.

"I never would. Sherlock, I never will. Okay? But there are days... Days I can barely stand myself. I should be able to help but I find myself incapable. Everything we've done together and still I barely know anything about you. What the point in me, If I can't convince you to stay alive?"

Sherlock still hasn't spoke and I have no idea if I am getting through to him. However, this is rare moment. Sherlock is listening to me, wholeheartedly. I can see him pretend that he's barely noticed I've spoke but there's something about him that just makes me know he's listening. I'll carry on.

"You've told bits about your past earlier. I didn't thank you. It must've been hard for you. I know it was hard for me to hear... Oh, I don't mean it like that." I don't want to think like I'm blaming him for his past, I'm not. "I mean because I care. A lot."

My voice crack at the end and I have to clear my throat before

"You care." He repeats, his voice monotone but it almost seems like a question. One half of his face is still faced away from me.

"A lot. Sherlock. I don't want you to die. It'd kill me too. I don't want to be selfish but I mean it. I need you, Sherlock, probably more than you need me. You make my life worth living, I just wish I could have the same effect on you. It's not your fault."

I leave a long pause, waiting for a response from Sherlock. I can't even see his face anymore. He won't even look at me. I deserve that at the very least.

"Sherlock look at me. Sherlock. You must have something to say."

I see him shake his head, his body still face away. It didn't work. He won't speak to me. He doesn't care anymore.

 **Sherlock POV**

What happened to my act? I'm furious at myself. I'm sat here, all.. Cowardly. I can't even look at John. Why do people always feel the need to blame themselves? It's not John's fault. I can't understand why he thinks that. Though I don't even know why these tears are falling from my face, soaking my dressing gown. I'm so weak. I—I couldn't stop them from falling. I can't hold them in either. I feel so guilty. It had started almost the beginning of John's speech. I tried to stop him from talking but he wouldn't. I've kept myself quiet so far by biting down on my hand but it's starting to bleed. John will notice my shaking shoulders soon.

"Sherlock! Please!"

He's mad at me I know that. He wants me to open up. I know that too. I don't want him to see me like this. I start to panic, I need to do something. I can feel something building in my stomach and the pain demands all my attention. So much that I can't think anymore and I can't. I can't breathe.

"Sherlock, please. I love you. Talk to me."

I can barely register what he is saying but it reminds me that he's still here. I remove my hand from my mouth and look at him through unfocused eyes. I need his help. I need to ask him for help. I can't speak. I can't see him anymore, even though my dart around everywhere. He must have left. What do you expect? Of course he'd leave. I feel my thoughts swirling around my head and I almost drown in them until the thud of the floor against my skull stops them.


	9. Chapter 9

I can barely register what he is saying but it reminds me that he's still here. I remove my hand from my mouth and look at him through unfocused eyes. I need his help. I need to ask him for help. I can't speak. I can't see him anymore, even though my dart around everywhere. He must have left. What do you expect? Of course he'd leave. I feel my thoughts swirling around my head and I almost drown in them until the thud of the floor against my skull stops them.

John's POV

I've never seen Sherlock so vulnerable before. All my previous grievance towards him has been forgotten and I feel is the need to help. I tried calling him but he couldn't hear me. He must be having a panic attack. I manage to get to him just after his head, followed by the rest of his body, slammed on the floor. He's wheezing, he can't breathe. I lift his head of the floor and hold upwards in front of my face, with my hands supporting his neck. His eyes look around but he doesn't acknowledge presence.

"Sherlock! Sherlock. I'm here." I shake him for some response.

I know, from experience, that these attacks can last a lot longer if you're on your own. I doubt Sherlock's had one before. He reached out for me. He needs my help.

I bite my lip and embrace him in a hug. My arms support his body up while my hands soothing stroke him back. Sherlock's head is resting on my collarbone so I notice the quick change in his breathing as the air catches in his throat. He's probably confused as to why I'm so close to him. I continue stroking his back. His hands grasps my grey t-shirt in handfuls as he lets out a sob.

"Shh. Sherlock, I'm here. I'm here." I take a quick look at him. He's starting to breathe normally but his face is knotted in confusion. "It's okay."

He shakes his head repeatedly and I can feel his shaky breaths rattle against my chest.

"Get off me." It's a muffled command, but a command nonetheless and I can still hear his spite in the words.

He's putting up a front, I know it. If he really wanted me off him, he would have pushed me off. He would not be tucked against my chest.

"What are you doing?" He moans hoarsely and angrily.

"It's okay, Sherlock. It's over now." I reassure him with a little squeeze.

"Don't touch me." He says adamantly, though his hands creep around back returning the hug.

I realise now that his hands are shaking and I feel the need to hold him closer so I close the space between us. I feel him tense up slightly but I take him not pulling back as reassurance that my comfort was wanted.

"I'm a freak, John." He says with disgust.

I squeeze my eyes shut in protest.

"Sherlock. No. Don't ever say that... That was the most human thing I've ever seen you do."

Sherlock remains quiet but I can hear him still crying.

"I don't think you heard earlier. I told you I loved you."

"Love can take place in many forms. An emotional—"

I cut him off. "Are you trying to ask what type of love I have for you? We're family. Like the love between two brothers... Sorry, bad example."

He lifts his head and eyes and looks straight at me, more serious than he's ever been before.

"If I died, you would die?" He asks, referring to my previous comment.

"Yes."

I see a pan of sadness on Sherlock's face. His hands have stopped shaking.

"I don't want you do that." He says earnestly.

"Then don't die."

He grabs onto my arms and shakes my body for a second. "I'm serious, John."

"So am I."

He huffs at my ultimatum.

"It's like some tragic follow the leader game." I offer.

Sherlock chuckles making my smile.

"I love you too." He slips out carelessly while laughing.

"Platonically, of course." He adds for good measure but seriously as if to ensure I'm not getting mixed signals.

I laugh, "I know, you idiot."

 **A/N: Let me know if you want the story to involve Sherlock's experience at a psychiatric hospital, bare in mind it won't be very realistic as I don't have a lot of information about it, so most of it will be left to my own imagination.**


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock chuckles making my smile.

"I love you too." He slips out carelessly while laughing.

"Platonically, of course." He adds for good measure but seriously as if to ensure I'm not getting mixed signals.

I laugh, "I know, you idiot."

John POV

It's his toothy smile that makes me realize how much I'll miss him. How the days while drag and seconds will bleed into the next painfully slowly.

"John?" He raises his eyebrows.

"I don't want you to go." I look up at him sadly.

Sherlock remains quiet and then leaves the room. This may be too much for him, he doesn't understand these sort of things and what could—

My thoughts stop when he enters back into the lounge with his blanket around his body and one in his hand which he holds out for me to grab.

"What?"

"Well, I'm in shock." He gestures to himself. "I just had a panic attack. I think I deserve a stress blanket, don't you?"

"Of course." I say with a smile. "But what about me? Why do I need one?"

"You..." He trails off trying to find an excuse. "I didn't want you to feel left out. Grab it, John." He says impatiently.

We end up lying on the floor, our blankets overlapping and our heads facing the smiley face on the wall.

"There's only an hour until you give Mycroft the go ahead. If you have any questions, now would be the time." Sherlock declares.

"Why didn't you leave? You could've ran."

"Still can."

"Why don't you?"

Sherlock sighs, "You wouldn't run with me."

"Is it my fault you had that panic attack?"

Sherlock takes a moment to think. "No that was my own doing. I tried to bottle it all up but it got too much."

Sherlock POV

"It's sunrise, John." I say alerting John, although I'm sure he is already aware.

John remains quiet and I use this time to look out of the open window into the slowly lightening, yellow sky. I savour all the cars noises, the birds chirps and the brightness of the crescent moon in the sky. I'll miss this. I'll miss John. More than I can put into words.

John gets out his phone and texts Mycroft slowly. I don't ask him what he writes, I already know. He'll be waiting for a response and he'll be on his way, that is if he isn't already outside. God, I never had to worry about this part last time, I was knocked out. Now all i have to do i wait. At last I have John. that a luxury I didn't have last time. We wait by the door. I put on my coat and he puts on his. It's a shame he's not coming with me. I mean I wouldn't be right for him to be in there with me but it's still a sad sight.

Well if he's here I might as well use him. There's certain things I need to ask him to do.

"John, I need you to do a few things while I'm away. Firstly, I want a full drugs bust on this house and you should know that there'll be a few more than you expected though I never intended to use most of them. A large majority is just ones to keep you off the actual stuff. You may need Mycroft's help."

"Of course. What else?"

I can't see Mycroft when I'm in there. He'll only interfere and stop my recovery. I can have him bringing up the memories of the last time I went.

"I don't want Mycroft visiting me. Don't let him in."

"I won't. I promise. Anything more?"

"Make sure London's still standing when I get back." I say with a sad smile.

"It'll be waiting for you."


	11. Chapter 11

"I don't want Mycroft visiting me. Don't let him in."

"I won't. I promise. Anything more?"

"Make sure London's still standing when I get back." I say with a sad smile.

"It'll be waiting for you."

Sherlock POV

John leaves me for a second, without telling me why and sneaks off into his room. There's too much going around inside my head that there's no room to think about what he's up to so i just stand there, impatiently waiting for whatever is so important that he just had to get. I manage to take a longing stare at my chemistry equipment, our chairs and my skull before he interrupts me.

"Hold your hand out."

I do as he says and he places the item that was balled up into his fists into my palm. The coldness of it is almost enough to make me shiver but then my heart warms when I realize what it is. It's John's dog tag. He's never shown me this before, I may have seen it from a distance a few times but I've never had it this close up. I look up at John in confusion, why is he showing me this?

"I want you to keep it. Keep it safe."

I shake my head, "John, I don't deserve this. Something so special."

John's face is stern, he's decided that I'm keeping it, there's no point trying to argue and at this point i don't want to.

"I want you to have it. Let it be a reminder to you that you belong somewhere, that I'm here waiting when you're ready to come back. Let it remind you that you have a purpose, a reason to come home."

I exasperate, no-one has ever given me something so... meaningful.

"Thank you, John." I say, sliding it into my pocket.

He nods.

John get a text message and looks up at me sadly.

"Time to go, Sherlock."

I put on my scarf and open the door.

I go straight toward Miss Hudson's door. I knock twice. Please let her be in, I need to say goodbye. The locks unlock and i feel myself letting out a breath I didn't know I had been holding. She opens the door with a cheery smile which dials down when she sees us faces.

"Sherlock?" She mumbles.

"I'm afraid, I've come to say goodbye. Mycroft's sending me back to Primrose." We share a knowing look.

"That boy... I swear. There's nothing some brotherly affection and a therapist couldn't fix. When I was younger-"

"I need to go, Mrs Hudson."

She bites her lip.

"You think he needs to go?" She directs at John.

"Yes." He says certainly.

"Well then, I guess it's settled. Do you have time for a cuppa?"

I can't stay here any longer. It's just giving me more excuses not to leave but how can I let her down again? I can't say no to this woman, thankfully I don't have to.

"I'm sorry, but Mycroft isn't waiting around."

She sighs and tears form in her eyes, "Give me a hug, then."

I reach down and hug her small frame while she pats me on the back.

"Look after John for me." I whisper in her ear.

She nods and pulls away.

A few tears fall from her face and I force myself not to cry with her. I step away towards the stairs.

"Don't you escape again. You almost gave me a heart attack last time." She shouts seriously with a sad smile

I laugh and shake my head.

"I won't."

"Goodbye, Sherlock!" She calls from her door.

"Goodbye Miss Hudson." I declare when reaching the last step.

"What did she mean you ran away?" John questions astonished.

"We prefer the term escaped. John, seriously, you know me. I could get out of anywhere if i wanted to. Primrose isn't actually that challenging, if you time it right, fake a few injuries."

John's eyes are wide and disbelieving so i stop talking.

"I'm not going to this time."

John raises an eyebrow, "Promise. Me."

"I promise."

I open the door and I see Mycroft waiting outside. He's a little smug but I try not let it bother me. Ultimately, I have chosen to go. I could've ran at any point. In fact, i probably could right now. But I'm not. This is my choice, not his.


	12. Chapter 12

I open the door and I see Mycroft waiting outside. He's a little smug but I try not let it bother me. Ultimately, I have chosen to go. I could've ran at any point. In fact, i probably could right now. But I'm not. This is my choice, not his.

John's POV

It's obvious that Mycroft's presence makes Sherlock uncomfortable. Mycroft didn't give him a say in all of this. He asked me for my consent but what about Sherlock? Surely he should be the voice if this decision but Mycroft doesn't care about his thoughts. I'm no psychologist. I don't know if this is right decision but I can't back out now. I just want Sherlock to be healthy. I want him to be happy. I can tell Mycroft knows I've been crying and I'm pretty sure, although it's unusual, he is aware that Sherlock's cried too. At this point, I feel like crying again so my previous marking won't make much of a difference. Sherlock glares at Mycroft once we reach the car and there's no more to walk.

"You alright, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks hesitantly.

Mycroft does seem to be forlorn and genuine but only so much. You can tell he's not that emotionally involved. He cares because he' supposed too, not because he wants or needs to.

Sherlock scrunches up his face. "Shut up, Mycroft."

"Hating me isn't going to stop this from happening, although if it helps, carry on but I can assure you it doesn't really bother me. Perhaps it's now kind of comforting. You hating me isn't exactly unusual. It makes this whole…" He points his umbrella up and now Sherlock's stature. "Situation seem normal."

Mycroft's slightly happy at the end of his… whatever that was. Something to rile Sherlock up. Sherlock doesn't speak and that makes me concerned. Even Mycroft is shocked and keeps his eyebrow up.

Sherlock shuts his eyes and for a moment I think he's going to have another panic attack but as I come closer he looks as if he's calmed himself down.

"Stop. Not today. Just stop." He voice is stretched as if he's in pain.

Mycroft nods and steps back a little.

"John. Remember those thing I asked you to do—"

"I've got it Sherlock." I say trying to reassure him but my bottom lip starts to wobble.

Sherlock places his hand on my arm and gives it a squeeze.

"Don't you worry about me. I like crazy people, I'll probably make some friends."

I laugh, "You probably will but I won't be happy if I get replaced."

"I can't guarantee anything. You'd be surprised how easily you can bond with people when you've get a few aspirin spare." I can't tell of he's joking but the idea of him becoming a drug dealer in Primrose makes me smile, even though as a doctor, it most certainly shouldn't.

"I can't believe I'm letting you go."

Sherlock just nods, not really understanding why I'm getting so emotionally.

"I'll be alright, John. Really." Sherlock offers.

I see Mycroft's intrigued look over Sherlock's shoulder when I pull Sherlock into a tight hug and Sherlock joins in without the usual hesitance.

"No Mycroft." He almost begs in my ear.

"I know." Not being able to say much more as he is studying me only a couple of meters away.

I finally let him go and a tightness forms around my chest. He's really going.

"As soon as you're out, call me." I say desperately.

"Okay." He says with a tight mouth.

"Goodbye, John."

His words are strong but Sherlock's face is full of pain in the glance he gives me before opening the car door. It's almost enough to want to make me tackle the driver and turn the car into a get away one with its sole purpose to take us somewhere nicer. However, my feet say firmly on the ground, my heart is not allowing me to move. Even if we did escape, how long would Sherlock last? Not long enough.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

I say before he sits in the black car and disappears behind the concealing black windows.

Before I can think, Mycroft makes his way towards the other side of the car. I stop him in he's tracks.

"I think I'm allowed to get in my own car, thank you very much." He tries to sidestep me but I block his advances.

I promised Sherlock there would be no Mycroft, so there won't be. However I'm pretty sure the driver won't leave until he has pteermission from Mycroft.

"Get out of my way, John." He says menacingly.

"Tell your driver you won't be accompanying him."

He looks at me angrily.

"Why in god's name would I do that?" He pushes me backwards, hard, and manages to slip around the side of me.

His hands are a couple inches away from the door handle.

"He doesn't want you there. He doesn't want you anywhere near him." I say very spitefully, remembering the time he tortured Sherlock by refusing him pain killers after his overdose.

"I'm going with him to ensure he goes. It's in our both interests that I. Go. With. Him." He almost spells out the last part and I can feel my temper rising. Why can't he give Sherlock some credit? He's allowed all of this to happen despite not having a say in the matter and he is in the car waiting to be transported. He has committed to going yet Mycroft still can't believe that he'd actually do this this without a motive, a plot to escape.

"I trust him. Don't you?"

Mycroft sighs and doesn't answer but removes his hand from the door. I can't pretend that I was responsible for this sudden burst of faith.

"You already have officers in place to ensure his arrival don't you?"

If I didn't know him, I'd have thought the look in his face was guilt and not indifference.

He walks over to Drivers window, which is already open ready for his instruction. "Leave without me. Make sure he gets there."

I wait a while before I hear him say "Yes, I'm sure."

Then the car drives away, just like that, into the traffic. As a few other cars suddenly leap to life and drive carefully but in the same direction as Sherlock's car, Myroft walks away but not before muttering something.

"I had to."

 **AN: Tell me your thoughts, leave a review.**


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock POV I try to pretend I didn't notice the cars trailing me on the way here or the invisible agents breathing down my neck. I know they are ordered to stay far enough to be hidden but they are so obvious they might as well have strapped me up and carried me in.

"Hello?" My voice echoes around the room.

Though at least Mycroft isn't here. That's one good thing. I get to the front desk and a skinny women with red glasses that are too big for her looks up at me from her chair.

"Oh!" She squeals as if I've interrupted something important but then stares at me saying nothing more.

Her hair is dark brown and static and put into pig tails. I can tell by the rate it settles that it's been like that for quite some time before I got here. Her nails are painted red but they are chewed at the ends, from anxiety. Or agitation, I add after seeing her slam her fist on the table and tilting her body over the desk and closer towards my face.

"Are you mute?" She says accusingly while showing interest in my vocal chords.

"No. Are there mute people here?" I asked surprised.

"Yes." She says quickly, enjoying the back and forth of the conversation.

"Do you brush your hair a lot?"

"No, never." She lies with much necessity.

"Then why's your hair static?" I say while grabbing a strand.

She looks up at my fingers in awe and I realise how big her eyes are. She examine the stand in my hand and then looks up.

"It's not." She frowns. She suddenly grabs a clipboard and gets back to business.

"Name?" As if none of the previous conversation happened.

"Sherlock. Holmes." She scribbles it down.

I feel myself getting agitated. Couldn't they find a receptionist that wasn't crazy? I find myself looking down at her clothing. It's the work uniform, blue blouse, black everything else. She's forgotten to do up a button so there is a diamonded shape of exposed flesh and it just so happens to give me a peek of her chest. I can tell she didn't do it purposely by the way she stands, well unless she wanted me to see. Though right now it doesn't seem like she's even noticed my gender but earlier I was sure she knew more than that.

I don't know what I expected to happen but I didn't think I would be left in such an open space on my arrival. I think I just thought someone would be waiting for me. With the inviting exit only a hallway away, it is more tan tempting to run.

"My brother didn't call you?" I say with angst even though I could bet my life that he did.

"Brother?"

"Mycroft."

"hmmm." She hums tapping her chin with her finger.

"I didn't know you had a brother." She blurts avoiding my question.

None of this makes sense. I just want to get in there and deal with whatever happens next.

"You say that as if we weren't perfect strangers. You didn't know my name a second ago."

"Let me check my files." She sighs.

As she reaches up to grab a folder on the top shelf and her cardigan lifts and I can see a splatter of bruises on her stomach. When she finds the folder the cardigan slips back into place concealing it. I wonder where she got them from. She had a broken rib I'm sure, internal bleeding. They were caused by a man. Abusive relationship? No. She isn't keeping up appearances. She doesn't seem to care what she looks like but she is secretive about the marks.

"Why'd you keep staring at me?" Her eyes are hard.

"I—I wasn't." I stutter not realising she was watching me too.

"I'm not some statue. Haven't you learnt any manner? You mom never taught you any? It ain't right to stare." Her voice becomes more aggressive the more she speaks.

"I was looking at your bruises." I shrug.

"You. It's people like you that ruins a place like this. Always sticking your nose into other people business. Well I can't take it anymore. I'm trying to do my job! Or are you too thick to understand that?"

She slams her hand on the desk and flattens it. She places her other hand alongside it and push her weight onto it. She scrambles over the desk and pushes me backwards with more force than I thought she'd have. I don't understand why she is angry. How is it my fault she got beaten? What is she doing here in the first place, she obviously isn't mentally stable.

"Too thick. Too bleeding thick."

She pressures me into backing away and soon enough my head hits the wall. She grabs my shirt tightly, ager contorted on her face. I don't know how not to annoy her at this point. After what I did to john, maybe I deserve this. If this is the way of punishing me, I won't stop it. I let my hand fall to my sides.

She's not a staff member. She's a patient.


	14. Chapter 14

She pressures me into backing away and soon enough my head hits the wall. She grabs my shirt tightly, anger contorted on her face. I don't know how not to annoy her at this point. After what I did to john, maybe I deserve this. If this is the way of punishing me, I won't stop it. I let my hand fall to my sides.

She's not a staff member. She's a patient.

 **Sherlock POV**

Her hands wrap around my neck while mine stay at my sides. I don't stop her. If there's one thing I've learned from this life is that if the universe decides you need to go, there's no point fighting it.

"Stop it!" She screams at me. "Shut up!"

Apart, from the squeaks of my closing windpipe, I'm not doing anything. I could scream externally if she preferred but I'd much rather do it inside my mind palace. She digs her fingers deeper around my neck and I can feel the raw intensity of the pain. My lungs try to catch up but they are full of flames dancing and prickling my abdomen. I start to feel light headed. Lack of oxygen to the brain, never a good thing. I've got a minute or so until it's over but each second is torture. My hands involuntary spasms upwards. My brain is forcing me to act. I look down at her hips where my hand lie, out stretched, ready to push her away. I hesitate. Black spots appear, majority in the left eye. I deserve this, don't I? I didn't kill myself, she will kill me. John couldn't be upset about that, could he?

The pressure around my throat drops and simultaneously I hear a piercing shriek. It takes me a while to get my sight back but when I do, I'm livid.

"You'll get hell for doing that! Do you know who that man is?" He pushes her head to the ground.

Mycroft's men are surrounding my strangler. There's three of them, they've managed to wrestle her to the ground but not before kicking her in the ribs enough times to deem it pleasurable for the torture.

"S-sherlock." She remembers quickly answering his question. It only angers him more.

He digs his heel into her wrist until she begs him to stop. She has a small frame, they didn't need to do much to keep her down. She's sobbing profusely, she doesn't understand.

"Stop it! You're hurting her!" I try to say but it comes out as crackling sound. That isn't right. I try to speak again but a wail comes out again and the black spots come back in my vision. I decide to stop before I pass out.

The man that's closest to me tries to reason with me, "DOn't try to speak. We've got this all handled. You don't need to worry."

He must see how furious i am because he blocks my path toward her. Disgusting. I hear a heavy handed slap.

 **AN: PLEASE leave a REVIEW.**


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